Charlotte
August 29, Manassas, Virginia
Beau and I are breathing hard and sweat streams off my face. The hill in front of us blocks our path home. Well, at least, what’s home now. My real home is thousands of miles away.
And it’s not home anymore, anyway.
Ahead, I can make out a statue of a guy on horseback. He’s the imaginary finish line. The flanks of his bronze horse dull the light of the evening sun. I swear, no matter what people say about Arizona’s desert heat, summers in Northern Virginia ought to be outlawed. How anyone breathes this soup is a total mystery.
“C’mon, Beau,” I say. The look he gives me, with his tongue lolling out, and his black fur gleaming in the sun, says, “You got to be kidding me” as clearly as words.
“You’re right,” I say to him, “I don’t know why I bother.”
In one of his last emails, Dad sent a training schedule that he was supposed to be home for. It was to get me ready to try out for the Cross-Country team. I guess he’ll never know if I make the team or not, which means he won’t know I didn’t train hard enough, either.
And that means I’m not letting him down.
I swallow hard and start up the hill, slowly.
The trip up the hill isn’t a sprint, but it’s the best I can do.
Although Cross-Country wasn’t football, like he played, according to him, it was the best option for a girl.
And now everything has changed. I live in Northern Virginia, and Dad will never be coming home.
The sign by the base of the statue says the guy on the horse is Thomas “Stonewall” Jackson. He and his Virginia brigade threw back Lincoln’s troops and stopped the Union advance into Virginia in the first battle of the Civil War, “like stones in a wall.”
So, this must be the guy my new school is named after.
It’s hard to believe my parents grew up here. But the whole Confederate general thing explains a lot. The way he looks, sitting there on his horse like a god, you’d think the South won or something.
A cloud of gnats buzzes around my head, and my heart’s rhythm matches the tempo of Beau’s panting. I wipe my face with the hem of my shirt. Beau tugs me across the parking lot to the water fountain mounted on the wall of the Visitor’s Center. With a twist of the handle the water leaps over the basin. Beau’s head goes sideways to lap at the stream as it splashes on the cement. It’s so sweet, I laugh, then catch myself.
Lately, laughter feels like treason.
I look out over the hill we just climbed. Mom’s unpacking. She says the sooner we get things put away the sooner things will feel like home. She’s said the same thing every time the Army moved us. This time is completely different, thought. This time, all Dad’s stuff went on a Goodwill truck back in Arizona.
No matter how many times she says it, Manassas will never be home.
My shadow stretches clear across the parking lot making me cringe. Five-feet-seven is too tall for 7th grade, and now, even the sun’s making me feel like a freak.
Dad was tall.
I lean in over the arc of water and pull on my ankle to stretch my quad. Water mingles with the salt on my lips before it slides past an ache in my throat that never seems to go away.
After a couple of gulps of water, I take a deep breath. “Be brave, soldier.”
It’s what Dad said before every deployment. Even with all the videos we have of him, sometimes I can’t remember what his voice sounded like.
Beau watches as the barn swallows twitter and swoop low in front of a horizon streaked with rose and gold, and his tail sways high behind him. The scent of dried grass hangs thick in the air. How creepy is it that there’s a park where all those people fought?
And died.
I’d bet you a billion dollars no one will ever build a park like this in Afghanistan. Not in a million years.
I slurp another mouthful of water and let the water splash over the side again for Beau. My hamstrings twitch.
“You gotta run every day, C.C.” It was practically all Dad talked about the last few times we spoke, back when we thought he’d be home for tryouts.
A tree beyond the building sways and the leaves whisper. Hoping to catch whatever breeze might be trying to fight through the heat, I lift my arms out to my sides. Mom says storms come up pretty quickly around here. But there’s not a wisp of a cloud in sight. The gust moves Beau’s fur.
As we turn toward the road, I notice a kid, a little older than me, sitting on the wall that borders the Visitor’s Center’s outdoor patio a couple feet away. He’s got his head in his hands and his elbows are resting on his legs.
Funny, he wasn’t there a minute ago.
Most boys my age are a lot shorter than me. Or tall and skinny. Not this guy. Sweat plasters his shirt to him and you can see every muscle in his back. His sleeves are rolled up above his elbows, and even his wrists and forearms look strong. Blue veins stand out against pale skin.
The super strange thing, though— he’s wearing a pair of thick grey wool pants. With suspenders.
I step away. Even though he snuck up on me, I’m give him plenty of space. But good old Beau has other ideas. Before I can stop him, my dog lunges toward the kid, tugging me along with him, and he knocks the kid’s elbow with his nose.
“Beau!” I yank him back, but he’s gotten what he wanted. The boy goes down on his knees, and hugs Beau like they’re long-lost buddies.
“Sorry,” I say, giving Beau some leash. “He’s really friendly.”
The boy doesn’t seem to hear me. He’s got his face buried in Beau’s neck, and he’s muttering something. Beau sits down quietly. His tail scrapes the ground behind him. “Blue, you crazy dog,” he says. “You found me!”
“It’s Beau, actually,” I say as my dog slobbers all over a stranger.
I step forward to grab Beau’s harness. The boy smells of the forest, like moist earth, and a scent that reminds me of the Fourth of July. Dead leaves and a twig cling to his hair. It’s like he’s been rolling around in the woods, and now that I’m closer, his pale skin seems almost transparent.
“So, do you go to Stonewall Jackson?” I ask, then cringe. God, C.C. You just met this guy.
The boy looks at me. His eyebrows knit together, and a muddled look crosses his face. A strand of matted, blond hair falls across his eyes, and splotches of something dark are smeared across his face.
“I’m not Thaddeus,” he says.
And then, I swear to God…he disappears.
Jeremy
April 18, 1861, Fairfax County Courthouse, Virginia.
Sweat trickled down Jeremy’s neck and spine. Spring wasn’t even a month old, and already the sun felt like it would fry him. He lowered the plow’s handles and hitched his shoulders to keep the reins from falling. Pa bent over the blade’s front bracket and hoisted it out of the mud.
Ginny was old, but she’d make it through spring planting. Muddy red dirt splayed out on both sides of the plow’s hilt emitting the rotting grass and sharp tangy smell of Virginia clay. Virginia had its very own particular smell.
Smells like home, Jeremy thought.
Pa resettled the plow’s blade, and Jeremy grabbed the handles again. “Come on, girl.” He made a soft clicking sound in the back of his throat. “We’ve only got a few more rows.”
Good thing she can’t count, otherwise, she’d stop right here and refuse to take another step. Ginny’s flesh twitched, and her tail whistled through the air striking her back with a thwick. She strained against the harness.
“Good girl, Ginny.”
From the corner of his eye, Jeremy saw Blue raise his head off his paws. The dog was asleep in the shade, but something had caught his attention. He stared down the lane toward the road. Jeremy followed Blue’s stare. Will Dawson was hollering and waving something over his head.
Blue stood and watched as Will approached. Then he was off in a flash, like he was after a rabbit. The dog raced toward Will, his black coat luminescent-blue in the sun, mud flying from under his feet. Jeremy smiled. Blue would never walk if he could run. The dog pulled up short in front of Will and barked the high-pitched bark that meant he was happy to see you. Pa and Jeremy stopped struggling with the plow. Ginny sighed. Her tail whipped past Pa’s face.
“Blue!” Jeremy called to him. “It’s Will Dawson for goodness’ sake, you crazy dog.”
“I ran all the way here,” Will gasped and handed a broadsheet to Pa. His words were punctuated by gasps. “It’s done . . .They voted. . .Virginia seceded. The Governor’s . . . called up . . . the militias…Meeting tonight.” He squinted up at them. “Pa sent me over…to tell thee. Master Janney has called a Meeting. Tonight.”
Jeremy watched Pa studying the paper. He wiped the front of his shoulder across his face. “What do we do, sir?” he asked.
Pa didn’t speak for a long time. When he handed the paper back to Will he said, “I thank thee for the news, Son. I expect ye ought to go on home now. I expect there are still chores to be done with thy pa.”
Jeremy started at Pa’s words. Pa wasn’t a Quaker like Ma. When they married, the Fairfax Meeting expelled her on account of Pa’s father and brothers all being officers in the United States Army. “Ye” and “thy” sure sounded odd coming from him.
Jeremy squinted into the distance as Will Dawson trudged back across the neatly plowed field. “Are you gonna fight, Pa?” Jeremy asked. A lilt of excitement crept from his heart to his voice. Jeremy studied Pa. “Are you gonna fight for President Lincoln?”
“I don’t aim to do anything until we finish plowing this field, Son.” Pa turned back toward Ginny whose ears twitched off a fly. “Didn’t you tell this animal we only had a few more rows left? A field don’t plow itself.”
“Yes, sir.” Jeremy bent and wrapped his hands around the plow handles. The wood bit into his calluses. Whatever happened now that Virginia had chosen a side would have to wait until this field was plowed.
“Get on now, Ginny,” he said and leaned toward the horse’s rump. “A field don’t plow itself.”
